Northolt, english translation
by kaleksandrah
Summary: my poor attempt to translate my fic into English. it's 1940, Battle of Britain and Poland finds it somehow troublesome to live with England. Poland/England plus awesome Polish aviators.


Northolt.

"White Eagle, turn left at 2-3-0."

No approciate response like "Yessir" came.

"White Eagle, turn 2-3-0, can you hear me?"

The radio started to crackle, next some long-drawn-out rustles and swoosh could be heard. A layman would consider them as interferences, but the expert ear was able to recognize sounds of whistling and lyrics of Polish song, without any problems.

Arthur grinded out curses through his clenched teeth.

He was furious. And it wasn't only because of Feliks, who had obligatory training and military discipline for nothing, not to mention an obedience towards his superiors. Arthur was more irritated by the fact, that his compatriots were already fighting against Germany, while he was stuck at some airfield forgotten by people and God, surrounded by horde of unruly Poles. And whereas he was able to tolerate Feliks somehow – because he wasn't _horde_, but one man – thinking about the whole squadron was making him want to commit suicide. Or at least get drunk solidly.

What wasn't so difficult in current situation and with current company.

"Feliks, quit these Polish songs and turn 2-3-0!"

Still there was no response, except that Poland actually stopped singing. According to Arthur's experience it didn't have to be good sign though. And it wasn't at all.

"Holy shit." The curse broke out from Arthur's knotled throat, when he turned his eyes on the direction where Feliks should have been flying. He did it only to make sure that worn training plane was already dozens of feet below him, obviously heading for group of Messerschmitts.

Arthur sighed hard, wore his goggles on and held control column tight. Then moved after Poland.

After all he couldn't let that idiot be killed.

At the other hand it would resolve many problems though.

But Feliks had incredible luck. Any other aviator, known by Arthur so far, wouldn't survive such action as flying into swarm of German fighters with old machine. And even if he did, the injuries would discourage him from staying alive. But that tricky bastard not only had no serious injuries except some scratches, but also shot three Messerschmitts down without any big Arthur's help. It overflew England's cup of bitterness. He thundered and sweared like a bargee.

"What the fuck are you thinking? What do you want to prove me? That you are some fucking good pilot? Forget about such shows, unless you don't value your life! You are on the training, damn it, you have nothing to Messerschmitts passing by, I have my own squadrons for this job!"

Feliks was silent, scowling at Arthur and apparently smothering his anger. He was all sweaty and dirty, his blonde hair were sticking to his face; Arthur hadn't given him time for shower, but had dragged him to the control room just after the landing. Poland's green eyes shone dangerously, his fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white.

Finally Arthur cut his harangue in order to draw breath and then Feliks spoke, silently and reproachfully. In fluent Polish.

"_Za cholerę nie rozumiem, co do mnie mówisz, Arturku, ale mam totalnie dość szkolenia i tego złomu. Daj mi w końcu chociaż Hurricana!_"

Arthur gave up.

Feliks was a country, he existed for almost thousand years, but studying languages of the biggest and most powerful European countries clearly interfered in his plans of spending free time. Arthur already became convinced that Feliks' command of English limited itself to few sentences necessary for picking up girls from WAAF and the only one language, that he could talk with him in, was French, which Arthur genuinely hated; Feliks had spent too much time in Francis' residence while he was an expatriate. It could be thought that during some months spent with Arthur Poland should have licked English just a little bit. Nothing like that had happened.

"_Tu es terrible_" finally muttered Arthur through his hand, which he tried to hide his embarrassment by.

It seemed that Feliks was incensed at these words.

"No, it is you who is terrible" he answered, also in French. "Additionaly you think I am a total moron only because I'm not so stiff as you and don't want to talk in your empty language! Polish is totally more..." he was looking for proper word "...total!"

"I didn't know a man can call these rustles a language" stroke Arthur, more and more irritated. Feliks made him talk French! And he wasn't stiff AT ALL!

Criticizing the motherlanguage of Poland turned out to be the worst thing he could do. Feliks turned red; he was looking for some cutting retort for a while and eventually he shot back:

"And you... you... you cook like bilion times worse than Czech!"

Arthur didn't know how Czech cooks though, but in Feliks' mouth it sounded like the worst possible insult. He boiled with rage; he was sensitive about his cooking the same as Feliks was about his language. The situation was beyond his strenght. He was to regret his words later on, but nobody could take them back.

"Great" he muttered out. "So you'll be very happy if I didn't cook for you any longer."

"Excuse me?" It seemed that Feliks didn't fully understand him.

"Read between the lines and get out of here." Arthur couldn't stand it anymore. Feliks wasn't easy person to live with, the last months were full of Arthur's failures, many humiliations and many quarrels. Finally he could speak his discontentment out. "I'm already fed up with you, do you really think you are so important that I'll bear all of your moods and pander your whims? Realize it finally, the whole world doesn't resolve around you! Get back to these heroic partisans of yours, I won't train you anymore."

Just when he finished speaking, he knew he overdid it. Feliks turned even more red at first, then immediately white, in the end his eyes glazed over with tears.

"Naturally" he agreed with trembling voice. It seemed he was about to cry, but instead of that his face became cold and distant; Arthur hadn't seen such expression before. "But first tell Sikorski about it. And better count your pilots to be sure you don't lack some squadrons before you'll sent my people home too. Anyway, I leave."

So he said, threw at Arthur a look of contempt, passed him by and left, slamming a door.

Arthur was shivering. "Tell Sikorski about it." Oh yes.

Winston wouldn't be happy for sure.

Of course there couldn't be any summit talk. Anyway Arthur left Polish Squadron no.303's base very soon, just after he had heard a roar of engine and seen Feliks' machine flying to the East; the view which made him have a lump in his throat for a long time. Poland didn't even take his things; he just left, got in the plane and flew away in an unknown direction. It had to be admitted that he was really good at taking offence. And at some other things as well.

After the incident, Arthur realized that he had already stayed at the coast too long and it was high time to come back to London. So he said goodbye to Kellett, telling him he had some important things to do in the capital, got in car and drove away.

Some unpleasant news were waiting for him in London. Feliks was right, when he told him about worrying lack of pilots (damned Feliks!). Winston had declared that „the battle of Great Britain" had begun, Luftwaffe had attacked the coast, bombarded airfields and destroyed too many planes (a hundred times damned Ludwig!). And Arthur could do nothing, having so little of experienced pilots. These ones, who were currently recruited to RAF, had only few hours flown at Spitfires. Step by step, it was becoming a damn, flying circus.

"We have to get foreign squadrons involved in the battle" Arthur was insisting.

"Altogether with the Poles?" Keith smiled maliciously.

Arthur blushed. Everyone already knew about his argument with Feliks – it was obvious that Poland had to cry on somebody's shoulder, but why it had to be Sikorski's one and why general had to tell the British command about the whole thing? – and nobody was happy about that. Just the opposite. Of course Arthur knew the reason of that unhappiness and it was driving him crazy; everyone at British command thought that there were much deeper relations between Poland and England than there were in fact. And that such insulted Feliks will persuade general Sikorski to break Polish-British alliance. Arthur couldn't choose: to laugh at it or to cry with anger. Because Feliks was too sensitive and touchy, yes, that was the truth – it was almost two weeks after their argument and still Poland couldn't be seen anywhere, which started to worry Arthur, because it really could mean that he had left the Islands and returned home – but Feliks was also honourable and he always kept his word.

And first of all he was annoying and England couldn't bear with him, so why the hell should he have had some deeper relations with him?

Arthur looked at the assembled company and sighed hard. Bunch of intriguers.

"The Poles above all of the foreigners" he replied firmly.

Keith and Winston exchanged conspirational glances and Arthur felt sudden need for leaving the room or for hitting someone's face.  
><em>Calm down, Arthur, calm down. Surely Feliks already is in Warszawa, instigating his people to the next, sensless uprising. They'll stop it soon.<em>

How could he know that they will not and that he will meet Poland much sooner than he expected he will?

The thirty-first of August was exceptionally happy day for no. 303 Squadron – finally an order from above came, an order, which said they could officially fight with Germans. There was no end to the happiness of the Poles as well as to the amazement and embarassment of Arthur, when he found out the excuse for making such decision. One of the Poles, Paszkiewicz, shot down the Messerschmitt during the training; so he did the same thing, which was the reason of Arthur's argument with Feliks few weeks ago. He felt the more stupid, because the Squadron – clearly remembering their silent guest – had invited him through Kellett to drinking session, which was to celebrate that day.

Arthur couldn't say "no".

The Poles' drinking sessions were equally exotic and uncontrollable as the Poles themselves. Arthur had already taken part in some of them when he had been a guest of Polish squadron. Each time he had promised himself he wouldn't drink anything and each time he had been the first to lie under the table.

Not quite literary, of course.

That session didn't differ much from the previous ones; but Polish aviators were in much better moods than last time and Arthur drank too much rounds for the squadron's future victories. He already felt dizzy at ten o'clock, his head spinning, so he went outside to get some air; he sat down on the stairs of the side entrance to the canteen. Inside, the Poles were only just warming up. These bastards, where did they hold such ammount of alcohol?

"Ow, mister Kirkland, you like totally got drunk, sir."

Cheerful voice almost made him sober. Arthur jumped and turned back instinctively. His instinct was good; slim, blond-haired man was standing right behind him. And he was drunk as much as Arthur was, which meant he must have had five times more drinks than England. It was weird, he must have been drinking alone, because Arthur hadn't seen him in squadron's company before.

Feliks laughed, but his laughter was affected.

"Why are you staring at me like I was some ghost or something?"

Arthur moistened his lips and tried out his speech organs carefully. Surprisingly, it worked almost perfectly.

"I though you're already at Vistula. Besides" he frowned "real Feliks doesn't speak English."

Poland laughed again and sat down next to Arthur.

"As you can see, he does now." he replied. "I was forced to learn some, when I was hanging around."

The first shock at Feliks' sight passed and Arthur felt acute shame again; the shame additionaly fuelled by the alcohol and the silence, that suddenly hung between them. The noise of party could be heard from the canteen – laughters, sounds of broken glass, louder and louder songs – but there, outside, it was incredibly calm. Even too calm; Arthur started to sober up slowly.

"Why are you here?" he asked finally, feeling quite awkward.

"Like, what?" Feliks looked at him with amazement. "You don't think that my boys wouldn't, like, invite me to celebrate such day, right? Thanks to some people" he looked at Arthur knowingly; England turned red "we were waiting for that day totally too long".

"I'm sorry" mumbled Arthur.

"_Oj tam, oj tam_" Feliks waved his hand and his eyes shone. "Finally I'll show that damned wurst-eater, what I'm able to do! And that he can't spit in my face, _kurde felek_!"

Arthur looked somehow disgusted, Feliks only bridled at it.

"That was a total paraphase, you ignoramus! Besides, what do you, like, think, that it was the worst thing he did to me?"

Slowly Feliks was switching to his dangerously patriotic tone of voice, which was the only one sign of him being intoxitated. His face was serious, his look dimmed, he was becoming silent and grim; noisy and agressive, while provoked. Arthur didn't like that state of him at all, even was afraid of it in some way.

Fortunately Feliks pulled himself together quite soon that time.

"I'll bring more vodka."

And he went inside for a while.

Arthur sighed. And it was to be such calm night.

Half an hour later, Arthur still was sitting with Feliks on the stairs, blocking the side entrance to the canteen effectively. There were two differences: the bottle of vodka was empty and the world seemed so small and dark as never before. It was how Arthur was feeling it and the company of talkative Poland didn't make things look or sound better.

"... and I speak to him: good afternoon!, and he attacked me with a pitchfork, can you imagine? I was totally frightened, 'cause I couldn't _za cholerę _explain to him I'm not some, _kurna_, German."

Feliks was still lacking many of English words, so he was replacing them with French ones. And he cursed only in Polish, it was making his way of speaking even weirder. Arthur wasn't already able to understand him, he even stopped assenting and such stuff.

"Ah, and like" took up Feliks "I'm totally happy I can be here, at your place."

"Really?" gabbled Arthur.

"Totally! You have incredibly peaceful that war, I have great fun here." He bursted out laughing suddenly, poking Arthur in the ribs; England almost fell down. "But you could be more charming, girls look only at me, that's embarassing."

Arthur only muttered something, he wasn't able to do anything more. His head started to feel heavy, the sounds were becoming higher and drilling.

"And I'm totally thankful, you know, that you kicked me out from the training, really. 'Cause I had some thinking and I thought and in fact I'm having fun here, maybe I'll even shoot down some Ludwig's fighters and what? My house still will be in his hands! So... I'll be totally coming back soon, my people need me more under occupation than here, they'll be alright here, they're big boys. Besides they have Władzio..."  
>Something pricked Arthur out of the blue. He will come back. To his people. Probably they won't see each other very soon.<p>

In the same moment, his heavy head became a horrible feeling as if England was to turn himself to the left side, with his head in the very, very bottom. The voice of Feliks was not to be stood.  
>"Shut up, please" he only managed to say.<p>

Next he remembered worried face of Poland leaning above him. Then he got completely blotto. 

No. 303 ("Kościuszko") Polish Fighter Squadron – one of 16 Polish squadrons in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War. It was the highest scoring RAF squadron of the Battle of Britain.  
>WAAF – Woman's Auxiliary Air Forces<p>

Władysław Sikorski – a Polish military and politicial leader in the Polish government-in-exile during the Second World War.  
>Ronald Kellett – a British commander of no.303 Squadron. According to Biritsh-Polish agreement, each Polish unit in Great Britain had to have double command. Polish counterpart of Kellett was Zdzisław Krasnodębski.<br>"The Battle of Britain had begun" – the words spoken by Winston Churchill on 8th August 1940.  
>Keith Park – RAF commander and one of the strategist during the Battle of Britain.<p>

"That was a total paraphase!" - Feliks' words about spitting in the face are a paraphase of one verse of Rota, quite important song for the Poles. The original verse is "The German will not spit in our face". To see full lyrics go there: .org/wiki/Rota_(poem)

Feliks' story about pitchfork is believed to be authentic; one of Polish pilots had to evacuate from his fighter on the parachute; he landed at the field, whose owner considered him as a German, because the pilot couldn't speak English very well. You better learn languages!

some of Polish words, which I COULDN'T translate (but don't try to pronounce them, you'll surely do it wrong! XD)

"Oj tam, oj tam" - they just have dismissive meaning, couldn't find any English words for that.

"kurde felek" - one of Polish curses, but it's light one and I think it has to be one of Feliks' favourites. Why? Because Felek is one of Polish forms of name Feliks XD.

"Władzio" - form of name Władysław, which of course reffers to Sikorski. It's very tender one, no one would call the serious man so, unless it was his wife or mother. Or sister. Or any other close woman.

And if you had never ate anything from Czech's traditional cuisine and – like Arthur – doesn't know how he cooks – you are a very happy man. Really.

(that's my opinion, of course, don't feel offended, my dear Czechs, I love you! 3)


End file.
